Legends and Tales | Page 6

a more imprudent piece of
caution. Without noticing the desertion, buried in pious reflection,
Father Jose pushed mechanically on, and, reaching the summit, cast
himself down and gazed upon the prospect.
Below him lay a succession of valleys opening into each other like
gentle lakes, until they were lost to the southward. Westerly the distant
range hid the bosky canada which sheltered the mission of San Pablo.
In the farther distance the Pacific Ocean stretched away, bearing a
cloud of fog upon its bosom, which crept through the entrance of the
bay, and rolled thickly between him and the northeastward; the same
fog hid the base of mountain and the view beyond. Still, from time to
time the fleecy veil parted, and timidly disclosed charming glimpses of
mighty rivers, mountain defiles, and rolling plains, sear with ripened
oats, and bathed in the glow of the setting sun. As Father Jose gazed, he
was penetrated with a pious longing. Already his imagination, filled
with enthusiastic conceptions, beheld all that vast expanse gathered
under the mild sway of the Holy Faith, and peopled with zealous
converts. Each little knoll in fancy became crowned with a chapel;
from each dark canyon gleamed the white walls of a mission building.
Growing bolder in his enthusiasm, and looking farther into futurity, he
beheld a new Spain rising on these savage shores. He already saw the
spires of stately cathedrals, the domes of palaces, vineyards, gardens,
and groves. Convents, half hid among the hills, peeping from
plantations of branching limes; and long processions of chanting nuns
wound through the defiles. So completely was the good Father's
conception of the future confounded with the past, that even in their
choral strain the well-remembered accents of Carmen struck his ear. He
was busied in these fanciful imaginings, when suddenly over that
extended prospect the faint, distant tolling of a bell rang sadly out and
died. It was the Angelus. Father Jose listened with superstitious

exaltation. The mission of San Pablo was far away, and the sound must
have been some miraculous omen. But never before, to his enthusiastic
sense, did the sweet seriousness of this angelic symbol come with such
strange significance. With the last faint peal, his glowing fancy seemed
to cool; the fog closed in below him, and the good Father remembered
he had not had his supper. He had risen and was wrapping his serapa
around him, when he perceived for the first time that he was not alone.
Nearly opposite, and where should have been the faithless Ignacio, a
grave and decorous figure was seated. His appearance was that of an
elderly hidalgo, dressed in mourning, with mustaches of iron- gray
carefully waxed and twisted around a pair of lantern-jaws. The
monstrous hat and prodigious feather, the enormous ruff and
exaggerated trunk-hose, contrasted with a frame shrivelled and wizened,
all belonged to a century previous. Yet Father Jose was not astonished.
His adventurous life and poetic imagination, continually on the lookout
for the marvellous, gave him a certain advantage over the practical and
material minded. He instantly detected the diabolical quality of his
visitant, and was prepared. With equal coolness and courtesy he met the
cavalier's obeisance.
"I ask your pardon, Sir Priest," said the stranger, "for disturbing your
meditations. Pleasant they must have been, and right fanciful, I imagine,
when occasioned by so fair a prospect."
"Worldly, perhaps, Sir Devil,--for such I take you to be," said the Holy
Father, as the stranger bowed his black plumes to the ground; "worldly,
perhaps; for it hath pleased Heaven to retain even in our regenerated
state much that pertaineth to the flesh, yet still, I trust, not without some
speculation for the welfare of the Holy Church. In dwelling upon yon
fair expanse, mine eyes have been graciously opened with prophetic
inspiration, and the promise of the heathen as an inheritance hath
marvellously recurred to me. For there can be none lack such diligence
in the True Faith, but may see that even the conversion of these pitiful
salvages hath a meaning. As the blessed St. Ignatius discreetly
observes," continued Father Jose, clearing his throat and slightly
elevating his voice, "'the heathen is given to the warriors of Christ,

even as the pearls of rare discovery which gladden the hearts of
shipmen.' Nay, I might say--"
But here the stranger, who had been wrinkling his brows and twisting
his mustaches with well-bred patience, took advantage of an oratorical
pause:--
"It grieves me, Sir Priest, to interrupt the current of your eloquence as
discourteously as I have already broken your meditations; but the day
already waneth to night. I have a matter of serious import to make with
you, could I entreat your cautious consideration a few moments."
Father Jose hesitated. The temptation was great, and the prospect